


we'll leave the light on for ya

by perfchan



Series: fly fast, kiss sweet, break fashion rules intergalactically [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bottom Lance (Voltron), Fluff and Smut, Happy Sex, Humor, Keith is the smooth one, M/M, POV Keith (Voltron), lance and keith are both dorks, they are bad and their clothes are worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 10:18:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15532107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Life is damn near perfect. Not exactly perfect---the motel in which the team is crashing has the ambient smell of an ashtray, and the towel underneath him is cardboard-y with chlorine, and one of the vinyl slats of his pool chair is broken, so Keith has to position himself a certain way or else it digs in---but he’s satisfied.It has been Keith’s experience in life that good things seldom last.A few droplets of water fall onto his face. Keith wrinkles his nose in distaste. A familiar (albeit muffled) snicker draws Keith out of his half-sleep. He opens one eye.*The team chills at a motel pool on the way back to Earth. Lance wears a speedo. Keith wears something worse.





	we'll leave the light on for ya

***

 

Life is good. 

 

The alien sun is hot, but Keith is cool enough under the pool umbrella that he’s had no trouble napping. In the pool chair next to him, Shiro is still snoring lightly. Earlier in the day, Keith’s mom called to check in, and he’s happy at the prospect of seeing her again soon---the Blade should rendezvous with Voltron the day after tomorrow. He has a cold drink within arm’s reach and the only plan for the next few hours is to eat whatever Hunk ends up grilling on the poolside barbeque. 

 

They’re stopped here out of necessity. They’ve been en route to Earth for well over a month now and the lions needed a recharge. While Team Voltron has been soaking up the sun, their lions are soaking up quintessence, in the mystical, science-defying way that they do. Allura says that this should be the last stop before they arrive back to Earth, just a few more quintants to go. Less than two weeks. Without opening his eyes, Keith stretches, lazy and content. They can stay here for as long as the lions need, as far as he’s concerned. 

 

Life is damn near perfect. Not exactly perfect---the motel in which the team is crashing has the ambient smell of an ashtray, and the towel underneath him is cardboard-y with chlorine, and one of the vinyl slats of his pool chair is broken, so Keith has to position himself a certain way or else it digs in---but he’s satisfied.

 

It has been Keith’s experience in life that good things seldom last. 

 

A few droplets of water fall onto his face. Keith wrinkles his nose in distaste. A familiar (albeit muffled) snicker draws Keith out of his half-sleep. He opens one eye. 

 

A few chairs over, Lance is in combat ready position, a pose Keith has seen him take a thousand times. The gun in his hand is steady---Lance handles it with deadly precision---his shoulders are taut. His finger plays over the trigger. Keith watches him inhale, gaze flinty as he shifts to aim----

 

Right for Keith’s chest. 

 

Keith closes his eyes again, unimpressed. He knows how to call a bluff when he sees one.  

 

Lance drops the super-soaker water gun with a huff. “Keeeeith!!!” 

“Mmm?” 

 

“You’re no fun.” 

 

He listens to Lance stalk over to his side, the smack of his wet steps on concrete oddly harmonious with the splashing of water and the consistent glug-glug of the pool’s filter. 

 

“I am  _ too _ fun,” Keith slowly disagrees, making no attempt to move.  

 

A dark shadow falls over Keith’s chair. Ever adaptable, Lance hovers, apparently changing his method of attack. Keith accepts defeat too readily when it comes to Lance: he shades his eyes with one hand, officially abandoning his poolside snooze. 

 

Lance is posed with one hip out, the massive water gun slung behind his head. He’s wearing a speedo so tiny it probably should come with a parental advisory warning. A pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses are hooked over the slim band of material, pinching the measly excuse for a swimsuit down even further on one side. Other than the bathing suit, the only other thing he’s sporting is his standard shit-eating grin. “I just thought you might, yanno, like to get up and  _ enjoy the view. _ ” 

 

He punctuates his words with a little wiggle which is probably supposed to be enticing. (It’s not.) (Well. Maybe a little.) As if that weren’t obvious enough, he gives Keith a salacious wink too.  

 

Keith closes his eyes, pretending to resume his half-nap. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he drawls. He enjoys the sputtering that comes in response almost as much as he enjoys the way the speedo’s blue waistband cuts across Lance’s narrow hips. Almost. 

 

Lance plops down in the chair beside Keith, still grumbling a little. He gets comfortable, chucking the sunglasses and water gun safely to the side, laying on his tummy, arms folded above his head for a pillow. He sighs dramatically, drawing Keith’s gaze. 

 

Keith turns to find Lance looking at him through eyelashes still damp from the pool. His hair is wet too, curling around his ears and forehead, wet enough for water to bead at the end of each lock. He shifts---tilting his head against his forearms---and several droplets spill over with the effort, each making their singular paths down his brow to his cheeks to his jawline. He looks like he was meant to be here: sunscreen sheen on his bronze skin, toned body melting into relaxation, the edges of his mouth just barely playing at a smile. 

 

Sitting up on one elbow, Keith stretches to bridge the short distance between them. He brushes a piece of Lance’s hair back from his temple, catching the resulting drip of water with his knuckle. Lance closes his eyes, all too content to soak up the gentle touch like warm sun. 

 

“What’s the deal, banana peel?” he mumbles, leaning into Keith’s hand. 

 

“I don’t have a deal,” Keith says. The fondness he feels at seeing Lance so comfortable under his hands is too big for Keith’s chest. He used to be better at keeping it under wraps, but now that fondness tumbles out of his mouth, coding every meaningless statement as something sappy and heartfelt. He doesn’t know if Lance notices or not, but he also finds himself worrying about it less and less. “Do you have a deal?” 

 

Lance blows out a big puff of air like this is a very difficult question to answer. When he opens his eyes and looks at Keith, he’s much more serious. 

 

His voice drops lower as he leans forward, whispering, “Do you really think this is okay?” 

 

Keith brushes a thumb over his cheekbone, not understanding. “Think  _ what’s _ okay?” 

 

Lance looks uncomfortable for a moment, eyebrows knit, studying the ground between their two chairs. “You know…” He pauses, but when Keith doesn’t say anything, he continues. “You….

 

….wearing those shorts.” 

 

Keith draws his hand away, looks down at his perfectly acceptable green and gray camouflage patterned cargo shorts. He looks back up at Lance. Lance keeps his face serious for a moment. Slowly, inevitably, a devilish grin spreads across it. 

 

“I’m going to throw you in the pool,” Keith decides, moving to get up. 

 

Lance scrambles away from him, but not before making a grab for his sunglasses and water-gun. He slides the shades on, absolutely cackling, before taking off at a sprint. He leaps over a sunbathing Coran, apologizes hastily after running through a gaggle of alien teens, then abruptly turns the corner past the motel office. Keith tails him easily, but he’s a fool: by the time he also reaches the corner, Lance is there, waiting, perfectly in position. 

 

Lance rarely takes a shot he can’t make. This is no exception. 

 

“Lan--!!” he yelps, already too late. 

 

Lance is merciless in his victory. Keith is soaked. His white tank top is rendered see-through. His shorts are dripping wet. At least his shoes are waterproof. 

 

(His shoes are those molded, plastic-y, comfortable ones that have the holes in the top. They slide on, which is convenient, and they come in all kinds of colors! Shiro got a pair of bright orange ones which Keith thought were pretty nice, but he opted for a bolder choice: his sandals are camo too. They coordinate with his shorts). 

 

Lance is laughing way too hard, his head thrown back, the peals of laughter calling tears to his eyes. One hand hand is curled, lightly resting over his stomach, the other just barely hanging onto his gun. “Your face,” he manages to get out, almost incoherent. “Ohmigosh Keith, that was the  _ ultimate _ .” 

 

Keith is torn between making good on his promise to chuck Lance in the pool and the suddenly much more appealing option of making him incoherent for an entirely different reason. Lance just looks  _ so _ ... 

 

His abs tense while he laughs. Keith wants to trace their lines, feel them clench under his fingertips. Lance’s broad shoulders are shaking, the tops of them peeling from a week old sunburn. Keith would like to graze them with his teeth, leaving a different kind of mark. The inside of his lips are tinted, the last vestiges of a blue raspberry snow cone just barely hanging on. Is the taste lingering as well? Keith weighs his options, quietly contemplating while wringing out the bottom of his tank top. 

 

Lance begins an impromptu victory dance. It’s awful in every way. His speedo leaves very little to imagination. Keith makes his choice. 

 

“Are you done?” he asks, when Lance has finally laughed himself out. 

 

“Buddy, I will never be done.” Lance slides up next to him, blue eyes still alight with mischief behind the shades creeping down his nose. He tosses one hand in the air, making a decree, “Let it be known! Today! Whatever today’s date is! This is the day that Keith Kogane got his ass handed to him in a water gun DUEL TO THE DEATH! By the dashing--the daring--the one--the only--Lance McClain!!!!” 

 

“Is that what happened?” Keith asks, giving him a look. He starts in the general direction of their rooms. 

 

“I mean,” Lance shrugs, following him, “That’s how I remember it.” 

 

Their rooms are on the second floor. Keith takes the stairs, side-stepping the globby looking alien who’s passed out on one side and their accompanying booze drool. “For it to be considered a duel, I would also technically need to be armed.” 

 

“Psh,” Lance waves a hand, cutting in front of Keith to tap in the code to open his door. Room 214. “Semantics.” 

 

It’s cold in the room. The pastel, possibly lead-based paint might be peeling off the walls, the bathroom might be missing a shower curtain, and the comforter might have its fair share of cigarette burn holes in it----but the air conditioner definitely works. Keith shivers. 

 

“Shoot, dude,” Lance tosses his sunglasses in the general direction of the nightstand, then darts into the bathroom, bringing back with him a towel. He begins rubbing it aggressively on Keith’s head. 

 

“My hair’s barely wet,” Keith says, taking hold of Lance’s forearms to make him stop. “It’s mostly the rest of me.” 

 

“Right, right,” Lance pauses. He bites his lip, lowering the towel. “You should probably just,” his eyes shift downwards, taking in the soaked clothes lying flush on Keith’s skin. He swallows. One hand slips out of Keith’s grip, hesitantly touches the hem of Keith’s shirt. “Take these off?”   

 

“Lance.” Keith levels him with a look, “You didn’t have to soak me with a water gun to take my clothes off.” He continues, enjoying the striking red of the tips of Lance’s ears. “If you wanted to undress me, you could have just said so.”

 

‘Keith!” Lance is scandalized and sputtering. “I would  _ nev _ \--I am a gentleman!” 

 

Keith thinks back to the previous night at dinner when Lance was blowing bubbles in his drink via a pair of straws and his nose. He raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh excuse me---a gentleman?” He moves as if to go. “In that case, I better…”

 

“Ah, ah, ah! Not so fast!” Lance waves his hands around in a panic, before they come to a stop in the internationally recognized symbol for time out. “Come to think of it, since you’re here and all, maybe you wanna, I guess, I dunno…” he squeaks, “makeoutorsomething?” 

 

“Hmm?” Keith puts a hand to his ear, “What’s that, Lance?” 

 

The expression of disdain that Lance makes in response is absurdly cute. “You. Are. The. Worst.” 

 

Keith opens his arms wide while he shrugs, fingertips motioning ever so slightly, drawing Lance forward. Petulance dissolving, Lance steps into his waiting embrace. 

 

The room is cold but Lance’s mouth is hot. His hands are hot too---no sooner is he pressing a kiss into Keith’s mouth than his hands are running underneath Keith’s shirt, up and down, in that maddening way that he does. They graze over the small of Keith’s back, tugging him close, then pushing him away as they yank the white tank over his head. 

 

Lance’s bare chest is still sun warm, and Keith  _ basks _ in it. He gets greedy, pulling him closer, one hand around his waist, the other angling Lance’s jaw just right. Lance follows his lead, so eager to please, adjusting at the slightest of contact. Satisfied, Keith kisses him sloppy and slow, all tongue and gentle lips, his hands free to trail down Lance’s spine.  

 

He ghosts light fingertips over smooth skin, relishing the noises Lance makes at the contact _,_ soft and low into his mouth. Keith swallows them, hooking his fingers underneath the tight waistband of Lance’s swimsuit. Their hips rock together and Keith is breathless. 

 

“Ke-ith,” Lance splits his name in half, the stutter caused, at least in part, by a sly smirk. He might be about to say something else, but his head tilts back in such a way that Keith can’t help but silence him---he catches Lance’s bottom lip and sucks. Lance gets the gist---the kiss becomes more hurried: teeth against lips, fingers pressing into skin, needy mumbles falling between breaths. 

 

Just barely coordinated enough to do so, Keith unbuttons his shorts, pushing them down without breaking apart from Lance’s mouth. He kicks them off, pulling Lance with him, as he steps purposefully backwards, until the back of his legs are pressed against the bed. Clothes discarded, the friction is different---better---and Keith instinctively wants more----one hand dips lower down, gripping the back of Lance’s thigh, pulling it upward around his waist. Lance hooks his leg around Keith, shamelessly rutting against him. Keith moans in response and he feels Lance’s lips pull into a smile. 

 

Their descent onto the scratchy sheets of the motel bed is not as graceful as it could be, but it doesn’t really matter. What matter is that Keith takes Lance with him, relishing the way his weight settles over his hips. 

 

And that’s its own kind of headrush. Keith didn’t realize that he could crave something like he craves this weight, this feeling. Lance is on top of him, forearms on either side of Keith’s neck, knees on either side of his waist, fingers buried in Keith’s hair, caging him in, kissing him thoughtless, perfect, relentless. His hips dip down in time as his mouth works at Keith’s. 

 

Keith cants upwards, creating a rhythm, his hands on Lance’s waist, his ass, the back of his legs. He’s hard. He’s so hard. He squeezes too tight as Lance slides just right, and they pause for a moment, breathing out in huffs, faces close enough that it’s the same air.  

 

“Do you want…” Keith asks, intending to finish the question as soon as he can piece together the words. 

 

Lance understands the half statement. He looks down at Keith, his pupils dilated wide, despite the lazy afternoon sunlight filtering in through the drawn, musty motel curtains. “Y-yeah,” he stutters out, nosing into Keith’s neck, pressing a kiss there. “Yeah---I got, you know, stuff.” 

 

Keith has his hands under Lance’s waistband, he tugs down the tiny swimsuit, helping Lance shimmy out of it. He wastes no time encircling Lance’s cock with his hand as soon as it’s free. He strokes and Lance gasps against his neck, his own hand now blinding searching for the bedside table. 

 

“Ah--ah, Keithh,” Lance breathes, hand smacking in the general direction of the table unsuccessfully. Keith should stop, but Lance blushing and squirming on top of him while he fruitlessly tries to grab the lube is too good. He makes no move to stop. When he thumbs over the head, smearing the bead of precum there, Lance spasms. Keith is unrelenting, he pumps and Lance sucks in a deep breath of air against his neck, hand still reaching. He knocks something over. 

 

Krrrr, zeeee---

 

Click. 

 

They stop. There’s a rapid  _ click,click,click, _ like a timer. Keith sits up on his arms, Lance in his lap. “What is tha---”

 

And then the bed starts to vibrate. 

 

Violently. 

 

“Wh-at t-he he-ll?” Keith asks, the ferocious shaking of the motel bed splicing his words. 

 

Lance’s eyes are wide, he’s drawn slightly away, his hands settled on Keith’s shoulders.  He tilts his head and says something. 

 

Which Keith definitely cannot hear above the rapid, threatening whirr of the bed. “Wha-at?!” he shouts. 

 

Lance leans over him, mouth close to Keith’s ear, but now he can’t get his words out at all; he’s laughing too hard. His whole body trembles against Keith’s with giggles. He wheezes something out, forehead knocking into Keith’s, but the meaning is lost. Keith just shakes his head. 

 

“Ca-n we tu-rn it of-f?” Keith tries to raise his voice above the clatter. 

 

Lance shrugs, sliding off Keith to check, but the bed has other plans: as soon as he is less than steady, the bed increases its jostling with renewed vigor. He yelps, the vibrating bed nearly kicking him off. Keith just barely manages to catch him before Lance tumbles off the side of the mattress completely. 

 

And then Keith is the one laughing. He falls back against the pillows, Lance on top of him in his arms, both of them breathless with amusement as the bed madly rattles. 

 

The bed continues its deranged shaking for another minute, two. Keith tries to plant a kiss against Lance’s cheek since he’s in close proximity, but it ends up on his nose. Lance waggles his eyebrows in glee. Keith huffs. He’s about to get up, see if he can just unplug the thing, when it comes to an abrupt stop. 

 

“Is it over?” Lance whispers. They sit up. 

 

Keith pauses, listening. “It must be--eeiah!” The last word gets drawn out as the bed shudders out one last, rebellious kick, knocking them both flat.  

 

And then. It’s quiet. 

 

“I think it’s over.” Lance decides. 

 

“What. The hell.” Keith sprawls out as if exhausted from a hard-won battle. 

 

Lance hops out of bed, his long legs making a pretty picture as he stalks around to the nightstand to take a closer look. “Magic Fingers!” he whoops, absolutely ecstatic. “Keith, it’s a vibrating bed and it’s called Magic Fingers!”   

 

Keith shakes his head. Runs a hand through his hair. For fuck’s sake. 

 

“Speaking of,” Lance continues, because he’s horrible, “I found the lube.” 

 

“Finally,” Keith grumbles. 

 

“I’d like to think I’m worth the wait,” Lance simpers, pretending to be offended at Keith’s response. He slides back onto the bed. 

 

If he only knew. Keith thinks back to the first time he noticed,  _ years _ ago now, the way Lance’s mouth quirks up on one side when he thinks he’s being funny. All the little pieces of Lance that he’s cataloged away since then: Lance knits his fingers together when he’s nervous because his hands shake. He takes his coffee black. He has a vast and unparalleled knowledge of trashy soap operas. He feels too much and he loves too fast and he falls too completely. 

 

Worth the wait? As soon as Keith was ready to let him in, Lance was there, willing to give everything back to him tenfold. 

 

“You are,” Keith agrees, letting the words go unsaid. 

 

Lance smiles at him, beaming, certainly too pure a joy for the setting. He coats his fingers in lube. 

 

“You want me--” Keith starts to offer, mouth going dry at the sight of Lance unabashedly fingering himself open on the bed in front of him. 

 

Lance breathes out one long, dragging breath, shoulders relaxing into a slump as he works one finger deeper. “Nah,” he says, making an effort to keep his voice steady, “N-not yet.” He grins at Keith, crooked and perfect, “Just enjoy the show for a sec,” 

 

He lifts his hips, adding another finger, and it’s enough to drive Keith crazy. He strokes himself, watching Lance. “Lance,” he pleads, not caring that it sounds more like a whine. 

 

“Almost,” Lance assures, clearly enjoying being a tease. He leans forward, once again breathing in tandem with Keith, close, so close. He adds a third finger, looking at him through half lidded eyes. They’re close enough that Keith can see flecks of golden brown staining the blue of his irises. 

 

“Like this,” he breathes when he’s ready, withdrawing his hand. He moves forward, over Keith’s lap, brushing Keith’s hand aside. He wraps it instead with his own hand, coating it slick with lube. Keith watches, chest heaving. 

 

Lance lowers himself down on Keith’s cock, achingly slow, brows knit in concentration and effort. Keith clenches a fist in the bedsheets, trying impossibly hard not to roll his hips. When Lance is fully seated, he slumps against Keith’s chest, breathing ragged. 

 

“Good,” Keith tells him, feeling a little delirious--- _ hot, _ and good, and  _ tight _ , and  _ Lance _ , Lance is--- “P-perfect,” he corrects, rubbing soothing circles on Lance’s thighs. “Perfect, you’re perfect for, for me Lance, so good---” 

 

And Lance meets his eyes, taking in everything Keith is telling him. He kisses him, one messy hand sliding across Keith’s jaw, uncoordinated, and yeah, perfect. And then he moves. 

 

He raises and lowers himself back down and Keith tosses his head back, it’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s just what he wants. “L-lance,” he chokes. 

 

Lance is surprisingly quiet. He sets the pace, breathy whines just barely audible above the squeak of their traitorous bed and the obscene sound of their bodies coming together. 

 

He’s...everything. Keith is too caught up in the feeling of him. The sound of him. The sight of sweat beading at his collarbones, sliding down Lance’s chest while they fuck. The drag of his elegant, tan hands splayed over Keith’s body. The way he tastes when he pitches forward, kissing Keith like he’s catching a breath of air. 

 

Keith is not quiet. He groans out expletive after expletive, hands around Lance’s waist, hips rising to meet his, 

 

“Keith, Ke--” Lance jerks clumsily at himself, “I’m--” 

Not like that. Keith tightens his grip over Lance’s waist, pulling him down. He’s strong enough to  flip Lance over with ease. He does so, pushing his back into the mattress, Lance’s legs tightening around his waist. 

 

Lance looks up at him, fucked out, chest heaving. He sucks in one ragged breath before his mouth does the  _ thing _ , that little quirk of one corner, the thing that Keith will never again be able to describe as anything but sexy, “You a-always have to one-up me, huh, hotshot?” 

 

In a different situation, Keith might try to play along, but as he sinks fully into Lance at this new angle, he just doesn’t have the presence of mind for a comeback. It’s all he can do to shake his head in disagreement. 

 

Lance laughs in a particular way that Keith has never heard before, exactly---a cute, breathy chuckle escaping his mouth. It’s guileless and sensual and beautiful and so, so Lance. Keith didn’t know it was possible to love him more, but, here he is.   

 

“Lance,” he gets out, grasping at coherence, fucking into him, emotional, erratic thrusts coupled with jumbled rambling, “You’re--so--Lan-ce, fuck--Lance--La-nce,” 

 

When Lance comes, Keith strokes him through it. His mouth goes slack, back arching off the bed, half burying his face in the sheets. He stutters out Keith’s name, clenching and gorgeous underneath him. Keith comes just after, louder, clutching at him tight enough to leave bruises. He pulls out with a groan, running one hand down the back of Lance’s long leg, reluctant to part. 

 

They collapse together, breathing slowing down in unison. Lance fumbles one hand to Keith’s neck, drawing him close enough to kiss, but not quite coordinated enough to do so. His brow knits ever so slightly in defeat. Keith makes up the difference and kisses him just there, smoothing away the little forehead wrinkle. 

 

When he slides out of bed a few moments later, Lance makes a small, hurt noise that goes right through Keith’s chest. 

 

“Be right back,” Keith tells him gruffly, only leaving to get a towel to clean them up. He smirks as Lance lifts up each limb, daintily, as though Keith is his personal attendant. He tries not to be too rough.    

 

Afterwards, they settle next to each other. Lance is sprawled out on the bed, taking up practically the whole thing. He looks over at Keith in a haze, seeming to suddenly realize how little space he’s leaving. He acts like he’s going to slide over, but Keith catches his wrist. He rearranges Lance’s arm around his back and curls up into his side, using his chest as a pillow. 

 

“This okay?” Lance asks, voice quiet. 

 

Keith nods against him. “I usually sleep on my side,” he says, as if that explains everything. 

 

“I sleep on my back,” Lance responds, sleepy and slow, “and you sleep on your side.” He trails his fingers through Keith’s hair, lax and content. “That works.” 

 

*

 

Keith wakes because Lance is fidgeting. 

 

The hand that was settled on Keith’s back peels away, as Lance shifts, slinging an arm over his face to cover his eyes. “Go away, Hunk,” he murmurs. “I’m not getting up yet. I refuse.” 

 

“Lance! You in there?” Hunk calls from outside the door, repeating whatever he said before, then knocking twice. 

 

“Sounds important,” Keith muses, his voice still sleep scratchy. He makes no attempt to untangle himself from his current position. 

 

“Nah.” Lance settles back into the flat pillow, fingers drumming out a lazy rhythm over Keith’s back. “Doubt it.” 

 

“Lance!! They towed your lion!” 

 

“What?!” Lance shoves Keith off his chest, sitting up. His hair is a wreck, all messy from sleep and sex. He looks down at Keith, eyes wide in panic. “What?! How?” 

 

Keith shrugs in response. 

 

Lance rolls gracelessly out of bed, stumbling as he pulls on his boxers and a shirt. He stalks over to the door, opening it in a huff as he repeats his question: “How do you tow a giant robot lion?” 

 

Hunk looks thoughtful. “I mean, theoretically, like you’d tow anything else, I guess. I told you not to park th--oh hey, Keith.” 

 

Keith nods. “Hey.” 

 

Lance waves his hands above his head. “Stop chatting Hunk, this is an emergency! What do I do!” 

 

“Relax, Lance,” Keith stretches and moves to get out of bed, “We’ll get your lion back.” 

 

Lance tosses him his shorts, face pink, squawking, “Oh yeah, no big! It wasn’t your lion that was stolen, now was it!’ 

 

Keith looks to Hunk in question. Hunk shakes his head. “Nope, just Lance’s.” 

 

“See! So can it, mister!” His face has gone completely red. He throws a shirt at Keith. “And stop being all tantalizing! Put your clothes on!” 

 

“Lance.” Shiro shows up, poking his head in the doorway besides Hunk. “I’ve spoken with the motel staff, and after some  _ convincing _ ,” his nose wrinkles minutely, “they were able to direct me to the nearest impound lot. I can go wi--hi, Keith.” 

 

“Hi Shiro.” 

 

“I’ll go with you to the lot and we’ll figure this out. Although, you probably shouldn’t have---Keith, are you okay?” 

 

Keith stops his exaggerated stretching and grins at Shiro. “I’m tantalizing.” 

 

Lance sputters. 

 

Shiro snorts out a laugh. It’s a bright, full sound, and one that Keith is all too happy to hear more often nowadays. “Alright then. Just let me know when you guys wanna go.” He pats Lance on the shoulder before disappearing from sight. 

 

“You should be glad that Shiro’s getting a kick out of this,” Hunk says. “Allura might be really mad otherwise. Technically they are all  _ her _ lions.” He gives Lance a look of warning before heading out. 

 

“Like Shiro hasn’t ever been towed,” Keith scoffs. He pulls out the bottom pieces of his pants from the pockets on either sides of the shorts. Sitting down, he works at zipping them together. 

 

Lance stops dead in his tracks. 

 

“Keith.” His lion problem momentarily forgotten, Lance has both hands on his temples, looking down at Keith, eyes wide in utter disbelief. “What. Are you. Doing?” 

 

Keith demonstrates the zipper on the other leg, having reattached the first one successfully. “They can turn into shorts if you unzip them, but they’re really pants.” He gets up, showing Lance the final result. “Pretty sweet, huh?” 

 

Lance closes his eyes. He drags his hands down his face, looking up at the ceiling in silent supplication. He breathes deep, collecting his thoughts. “I really---” He starts over. “If you---” 

 

Keith blinks, waiting patiently for Lance to finish. 

 

Lance gives up, dramatically slumping. “You’re hopeless.” 

 

Keith hrmphs in disagreement. “Whatever, Lance. Just let me find my Crocs, and I’ll be ready.” 

 

The sound Lance makes in response is like that of a dying robeast. 

 

Despite Lance nagging about his outfits, getting ready to go doesn’t take long. Soon, Lance is walking beside him as they leave the motel room to get Shiro and figure out exactly which aliens impounded the red lion. 

 

Lance is in rare form, hand gestures becoming more and more dramatic as they accompany his running mouth. He seems to think there’s some crazy heist at work. Keith listens to his ever more outlandish theories, even though he privately thinks that 1) Lance is just bad at parking and 2) this is a shitty motel in a bad part of town. 

 

(He mostly keeps these opinions to himself. Mostly.) 

 

Slotting a couple of fingers in his mouth, Keith whistles. Kraft shimmers to his side, wagging her tail so hard her whole butt wiggles. “Good girl!” Keith kneels down for a second, rubbing under her ears, her cheeks, then giving her that ever sought after chin scratch. She noses at his chest and Keith plants a big kiss right between her amber eyes. Keith sighs, content. Life is good. 

 

When he rises to his feet, Lance’s expression gives Keith pause. His mouth is caught somewhere between a smile and something softer. 

 

“What?” Keith asks him. He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly a little self-conscious. 

 

“I missed you, you know,” Lance says, apropos of nothing, so quietly that Keith tilts his head closer. “All the time you were gone,” he clarifies. 

 

Lance loves too deeply and says too much, but sometimes, Lance has a funny habit of taking a long time to say what he really means. Keith wonders how long this has been on the tip of his tongue. He thinks that ‘I missed you’ might be Lance’s way of saying a lot more. He understands. 

 

Lance meets Keith’s gaze for a moment, but then ducks his head, drawing close to Keith. He’s almost hesitant as he loops one arm around Keith’s waist, tucking himself into Keith’s side. Keith holds him tight. 

 

It has been Keith’s experience in life that good things seldom last. But Keith has only ever been an optimist. 

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last fic in the bad clothes au, probably. Should you like to discuss Keith’s clothing abominations with me at greater length, please feel free: @jacqulinetan on twitter. LOL  
> I hope you enjoyed my angst free take on post season 6 canonverse klance. Thank you for reading!!


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